Snippets
by FlyersGirl1
Summary: Snippets of scenes from Deathly Hallows (and beyond). A bit AU, mainly because JK couldn't possibly have believed that 18-year-olds living together in a tent could be chaste. Generally sticks to cannon with a couple of (minor?) departures. M for a few scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE.**

"Yeah, I get it. I saw you two the other night," he grasps his rucksack over his shoulder and stares coldly between Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.

"Ron—what?" Hermione's eyes widen, her voice betrays panic. "That's—that's nothing, it's—"

He turns and walks out of the tent before she can finish her sentence.

She races after him. "Ron!" she shrieks, ignoring the desperation in her voice, and running to catch him.

"Stop!" she yells again, tears streaming down her face now. "Please! Ro-_on_!"

He doesn't look back, and by the time she manages to reach the spot in which he'd paused, he's gone.

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When Harry reaches her minutes later, she's collapsed into a pile, her knees pulled into her chest as she sobs into her arms. She shoves him off when he reaches for her.

"Hermione," he says gently. "It's freezing out here."

"Go away," she sniffles. "Please."

"I'm really sorry."

"Don't," Hermione lifts her face from her arms and glares at him, her face wet with tears. "Don't you dare apologize for what he did."

Harry sighs and lowers himself onto the ground next to her. "'Mione, I'm. . . ." he trails off. He puts his hand on her arm again.

Again, she shakes him off. "Please don't touch me," she whispers.

He swallows and nods. He readjusts his glasses—hands trembling—and blinks, staring ahead into the darkness. He listens to the sound of her muffled tears, glancing over at her occasionally to watch her shoulders rise and fall as her crying eventually calms and then stops altogether.

It's a good twenty minutes before she finally lifts her head from her knees. Her face is puffy and tear-streaked. Her eyes are red. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and stares out into the darkness.

"It's too cold to be out here, Hermione," Harry says quietly.

"What if he comes"—her voice breaks but she wills herself not to cry again—"back and can't—can't—"

"He'll find us," Harry says gently, rising to his feet and wiping the dirt off the back of his jeans. He reaches out a hand to her. This time she accepts it, and lets him pull her to her feet.

He puts an arm around her shoulder and squeezes it as he guides her back to the tent.

"Why did he. . . . why did he. . . .?" Hermione whispers, more to herself than to Harry.

Harry doesn't respond. He pushes her gently into the tent and secures the flaps behind them. He rubs his frozen hands together and heads to the kettle to boil some water.

Hermione walks slowly—in a fog—to Ron's now-abandoned bed. A lone tee shirt—Chudley Cannons, old and worn—is thrown carelessly on his bed, tangled into the quilt that Ron slept under last night. She reaches out a hand and touches it, closing her hand around the soft cotton and bringing it to her face. She sits down on his bed slowly, breathing in the scent of the shirt.

Harry turns to watch her and holds his breath as she curls up in Ron's bed with the shirt and starts to cry again. He sighs and walks over to her, watching her for a minute. She doesn't notice him.

Finally, he covers her with Ron's quilt and walks back to the kitchenette, sliding onto the wooden bench by their table and staring at the kettle blankly, listening to her sniffles as she quietly cries herself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO.**

She sits stiffly at the table across from Harry the next morning as he pours over her _History of Hogwarts_ text, sipping a cup of tea. She wraps her hands around her own mug and stares at it absently.

"Reckon we should move camp this morning," Harry says quietly, looking up from the book at Hermione.

"No," she says quickly.

"'Mione. . . ."

"No, it's not—it's not time yet."

"Hermione, if we stay we're more likely to be—"

"I know that, Harry," she snaps. "But how will—" she cuts herself off and gets up abruptly, going back to her own bunk and starting to toss things into her little beaded bag.

Harry swallows and stands, shifting from foot to foot, uncertain about how to respond.

"Hermione," he starts, and then thinks better of it, closing his mouth and heading to his own bunk to pack up his belongings.

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"This is all I could find out there," Hermione tromps into the tent and tosses a bowl of mushrooms onto the table before starting to unravel the layers of winter gear from her body.

Harry looks up—clearly lost in thought—and nods absently. He goes back to his book as Hermione attempts to transform the mushrooms into something edible. At some point she shoves a plate in front of him silently.

"What about you?" Harry raises an eyebrow, watching Hermione shuffle to Ron's bunk and flips on the radio. She's been sleeping there every night for the past two weeks. Harry knows she cries herself to sleep every night, and yet somehow thinks he can't hear her.

"I'm not hungry," she mutters, as the sound of music fills the tent.

Harry sighs and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, before replacing them. "Hermione," he stands and stretches. "You've got to eat. You're getting pretty skinny."

"You're one to talk," Hermione mutters, pulling off her jumper and climbing into Ron's bed, wrapping herself in his quilt and laying her head against his pillow.

Harry walks over to Ron's bunk and sits on the edge of it. "'Mione," he says gently.

"What?" her voice is muffled from under the quilt.

"We can't go on like this."

She doesn't respond.

"You _have_ to get better."

This gets a response. She throws the quilt off of her and glares at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry flinches involuntarily, averting her eyes. "It's just—I mean. . . . It's just—you've, you're. . . ." he trails off helplessly.

"Am I not _helping_ you?" Hermione demands.

"No, you are—but—"

"Am I not doing my share of the watch?"

"Of course you are, but—"

"Then sod off," Hermione mutters and flops back down onto the bed, covering herself back up with the quilt.

Harry grimaces as the hum of music—bloody depressing—fills the icy recesses of the tent.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you. I'll be the one if you want me to. Anywhere I would've followed you. Say something, I'm giving up on you. . . ._

Well, _this'll_ put her in a much better mood, he sighs. As if on cue, he hears quiet crying from underneath Ron's quilt.

Harry takes a deep breath. Enough is enough. He practically rips the quilt off her.

"Harry!" There's an expression of shock on Hermione's tear-covered face.

"No! No more," Harry insists, grabbing Hermione's arm and pulling her out of bed. "Dance with me."

"Are you mad?" Hermione glares at him. "I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."

"It's 8:30, for Merlin's sake! Dance with me," he pulls her into his arms.

He can feel her resistance fading; she feels so tired—so skinny—in his arms. He pulls her close. He just wants to protect her.

_And I am feeling so small. It was over my head. I know nothing at all. And I will stumble and fall. I'm still learning to love. Just starting to crawl. . . ._

"Say something, I'm giving up on you," he murmurs along.

"You have a terrible voice," she mutters, but he can hear the amusement in her tone as she says it. He feels her relax in his arms, and she lays her head on his shoulder.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you. I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. Anywhere I would've followed you. Say something, I'm giving up on you. And I will swallow my pride. You're the one that I love. And I'm saying goodbye. . . ._

Harry feels something shift in himself—almost imperceptibly—as the song fills the tent. Does she feel it, he wonders? He holds her more tightly and pulls his body against hers. They fit perfectly together. He's always been envious of Ron's height—Ron can lift Hermione and practically cradle her in his arms—he's so much bigger than she is—but _this_—being closer in size may actually be an advantage here.

_Ron_. He winces silently as he thinks of his best mate. _Former_ best mate? Harry pushes away the thought and breathes deeply, trying to focus on Hermione in his arms and this song, filling the tent.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. And anywhere I would've followed you. Say something, I'm giving up on you. . . ._

Harry pulls his face away from Hermione and tips her face up to his own. In this moment—is he imagining it or does she want. . . . He doesn't think anymore, he just moves his head toward hers and kisses her, closing his eyes and pushing her mouth open with his tongue.

She hesitates—he can feel it—but then she responds, sliding her own tongue into his mouth as she presses her body closer to his. She feels almost . . . desperate—is that the right word?—for affection, for physical closeness. He pushes away the voice in his head telling him that her desire for physical closeness is a desire for someone else—he whose name he's not going to even think right now, not when he can feel the blood rushing to his—oh, bloody hell. He's in uncharted territory.

He and Hermione do _not_ do this. They aren't even. . . . He's not sure whether to press himself against her or to hide his . . . growing excitement. He chooses the first option, as he feels her arms go around his body and press Harry more firmly into her. Is this _really_ Hermione?

"Hermione," he whispers, pushing her toward a bed—any bed will do—but bloody hell, not _Ron's_ bed, which she falls onto willingly, with him on top of her. But then—just as he moves to kiss her again, it's as if she's awoken from a dream—and she's bloody _horrified_. He feels her freeze against him, her now-open eyes betraying an emotion he knows has nothing to do with him. And there's bloody _Ron_ again, hanging over everything—even clouding Hermione's ability to _think_ properly.

"Stop," she whispers. "Stop," she pushes him away. Tears are coming now. "I don't want this," she whispers. "You're not—I don't want this. . . . I'm sorry. . . ." she trails off, shaking her head blindly and curling up onto Ron's bed, wrapping her arms around herself.

Harry stumbles backward, as if she punched him in the gut. "I'm—I'm sorry," he stammers.

Hermione is crying again now—in earnest—Ron's quilt hiding her from view.

Bloody hell, what did he do? Why did he do _this_?

"Hermione," he tries again. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to—I'm sorry," he says softly.

Hermione wipes her eyes and sits up slowly, eyeing him cautiously. Finally, she shakes her head. "Don't," she murmurs, so quietly that he has to strain to hear her. "_I'm_ sorry."

"For what?" Harry shakes his head incredulously. "I—I practically mauled you—"

"Stop," Hermione says firmly, her voice stronger now. "You didn't. I . . . I just need—" she stops herself abruptly and pauses. "I'm sorry I—I'm sorry I can't be. . . ." she whispers, trailing off.

Harry is silent for a minute as he watches her. Finally, he sits down on her camp bed, across from Ron's. "It's okay, 'Mione," he murmurs.

Hermione doesn't respond.

After a minute of silence, Harry clears his throat. "I know," he says quietly.

She stares back at him blankly.

"I know how you feel. About him."

Hermione looks away from Harry and buries herself back underneath Ron's quilt.

"It doesn't—it—I wish I could make you stop hurting," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I do."

"You can't," Hermione's voice is muffled.

"I'm sorry I kissed you."

"Let's just not—please," Hermione pleads from under the covers. "I don't want to—I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Harry sighs and watches as she curls herself up in Ron's bed and back under his blankets.

"I'll take the first watch," Harry says finally, getting back up.

No response.

Harry looks back once before grabbing his winter coat and heading out of the tent. Fucking Ron. Even in his absence, his presence looms over every bloody thing here.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE.**

When she sees Ron again, she attacks him without thinking. She rips the rucksack off of his shoulder and starts hitting him with it.

Ron looks . . . stunned.

Harry doesn't.

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Harry shivers in the cold as he gets up from the fire. He checks his watch and warms his hands one more time before opening the tent flap. He doesn't fancy waking Ron up to relieve him, but Ron insists on shorter overnight stretches now that he's back. Ron says that—according to his brother Bill—beyond three hours you're a shite lookout anyway. Harry's lips curl into a smile. Thank Merlin his best mate is back.

When he pulls the tent flap open, Harry sees that Ron is already awake. It's dark inside the tent, but his eyes zero in on Ron's tall form sitting in a chair by Hermione's bedside, where she appears to be sound asleep. Ron's back is to Harry, but he can see the outline of Ron's head in his hands . . . and his body seems to be trembling. Is he crying? Ron's not making any noise and the tent is so dark it's hard for Harry to make out anything for certain, but . . . .

Harry drops his eyes to the ground, swallowing hard. He figures Ron doesn't need—or want—any witnesses to this. Bloody hell. Ron and Hermione. For two people so obviously in love with one other, they are bloody rubbish at this. Harry backs out of the tent silently and resumes his position by the fire. When Ron's ready, he'll come out. Harry can wait until then.

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"I have to tell you something," Harry says the next evening. He and Ron poke at a large fire with sticks as they sit bundled up outside the tent. Hermione is asleep inside.

Ron looks sideways at Harry. "You chucked my Cannons tee while I was gone?" he grins.

Harry shakes his head with a chuckle. "Check with Hermione," he nods his head toward the tent. "She slept with it every night you were gone. In _your _bed."

Something in Ron's expression flickers, but whatever it is, it's gone almost as quickly as it came. His smile fades as he waits for Harry to continue.

"I, um—this is hard to say . . . particularly given the, you know. . . ." Harry's thoughts drift back to the images unleashed by the locket—Ron's worst bloody nightmares—bloody hell, then, how is Harry supposed to say this out loud?

But he can't keep it to himself. If he does—if Ron hears this from Hermione—and he _will_—she's bloody in love with him, and he's bloody in love with her—and as angry as she is with Ron right now, she's not going to keep this from him. If Ron hears it from her—and not from Harry—their friendship is over. So _out_ with it already, you coward!

"No, I don't know," Ron replies slowly.

"The stuff you—we—saw . . . the other day. The locket. . . ." Harry stammers.

Ron's eyes narrow but he doesn't say anything. He continues to poke at the fire.

Harry watches as their breaths mingle with the cold night air. Harry takes another breath and tries again. "It's—while you were gone—I told you, Hermione's been . . . she's been a bit . . . barmy, you know?"

Ron pokes the stick at the ground, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"We—um—one night—it's just, I don't even know how—it's just that things have been so mental around here. And just, it just happened, but it was—"

"Just bloody say it already, will you?" Ron snaps.

Harry's eyes widen as he looks at Ron. "Do you—do you know?"

"At this point, I reckon I can guess," Ron meets Harry's eyes squarely.

"It was a kiss—it was just a stupid kiss"—Harry watches as Ron roughly tosses his stick into the fire— "and we—we were dancing and we—I don't know why I did it, I was so . . . and then she started crying and it was all wrong and horrible and—I mean not the kiss, that wasn't horrible but it was wrong, I know that, but I just felt so alone and she was so sad and—but then after we did it, after _I _did it—but she didn't want—she wanted—she wanted—"

"Stop."

"—you. She wanted you," Harry finishes before swallowing the lump in his throat and staring down at his hands.

Ron is silent, watching his breath turn into cold frost against the light of the fire.

After what seems like a million years of silence, Harry can't take it anymore. "Aren't you—aren't you going to say anything?" he mumbles.

Ron swallows. "Okay," he says quietly.

"Okay?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to—bloody yell at me, or do _something,_ for Merlin's sake—I _kissed_ your—I _kissed_ her," he hisses.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Ron's voice is quieter than Harry's.

"And you . . . you're my _best_ mate, Ron; I'm so—I'm just so bloody sorry. I wish it were _anyone_ else. _Anyone_. I'm so sorry."

"I know," Ron says simply.

"That's it?" Harry is stunned. "That's all."

Ron sighs. "I walked out on her. I deserve it."

"You—you _deserve_ it? Is that what you think, Ron? That's—that's bloody _barking._"

"Harry, would it make you feel better if I punched you?" Ron raises an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe it would," Harry nods defiantly.

Ron shakes his head and gives a short laugh. "Well, you're out of luck, mate."

"Ron—I feel bloody _awful_—I feel like I—"

"I don't want to keep talking about this, Harry."

Harry just stares at Ron, his eyes wide. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but _this_—calm, resigned Ron—_this,_ he wasn't expecting.

Ron runs a hand through his hair. "I'm the areshole, Harry," he says quietly. "I saw what I wanted to see and I used it as an excuse—"

"The locket was making you—"

"Fuck the bloody locket. I have no excuse. Not for what I did. I hurt her badly," he says quietly. "I know that. I can't just walk back in and expect. . . ." he trails off, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

"She's—you know she's thrilled that you're back—she just can't admit it. She's furious with you, but that's only because she's bloody in love with you. You _have_ to know that."

Ron picks up another small stick and throws it into the fire. "Do you think she'll forgive me?" he finally asks.

"Of course," Harry says immediately.

"When?" Ron looks at Harry with a sad smile.

Harry shrugs and shakes his head. "When she realizes that hurting you is only hurting herself."

"What the hell does that mean?" Ron wrinkles his brow.

Harry laughs. "I'm not sure."

Ron laughs, too, and shakes his head. "You're a bloody idiot sometimes."

"So are you," Harry grins at his best mate.

"Of course, if you ever touch her again, I'll kill you."

"Understood."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR.**

"'Mione," Ron whispers, putting a hand on her arm. She's shivering.

"Mmmm," she mutters in her sleep.

"You're freezing."

One of Hermione's eyes pops open, and she can just make out Ron's silhouette in the darkness of the tent. He's sitting on the edge of her bed. She feels his hand on her arm. For a brief moment of bliss, Ron's touch warms her from the inside.

Then she remembers. She hates him. She shakes him off.

"Go away," she mutters coldly.

"Come on, at least take this," Ron pulls off his jumper and holds it out to her.

Hermione sighs and slowly sits up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Ron sits next to her wearing only a thin tee shirt that shows off every muscle of his torso. Hermione looks away.

"Where's Harry?"

"Went out on watch. I came in to sleep."

Hermione doesn't respond. Instead, she snatches Ron's jumper from his hands and pulls it on over her head. It's enormous on her, which surprises neither of them, as Ron has about half-a-foot and sixty pounds on her. She curls back up in her bed and closes her eyes, willfully ignoring his presence.

"'Mine," Ron whispers again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She doesn't respond.

Ron sighs, standing up and pulling the covers over her, gently tucking her in. He watches her for a moment before retreating to his bed across the tent. When he climbs in he's momentarily heartened by the thought that Hermione slept here in his absence.

She can't shut him out forever.

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When Ron comes after his watch he's exhausted. It's freezing outside tonight, as usual—Ron can't wait until bloody spring's here already—and Hermione's warming charms have all but worn off by now.

He pulls off his jacket, jumper and long-sleeve henley, dropping the clothes into a messy pile by his bed, and throws on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a thin short-sleeve tee shirt. He shivers in the darkness.

Ron looks over to Hermione's side of the tent and sighs. He walks quietly over to her bed and readjusts her covers, gently pulling a blanket over one bare foot.

He feels her stir as he lets go of the covers. "Mmm," she murmurs. She opens an eye.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "You were—the blankets—I didn't want you to be cold."

Hermione's other eye opens. She looks up at him for a moment, as if thinking about how to respond.

"Where's Harry?" she asks finally.

"Outside," Ron nods his head toward the tent flap.

"Are you tucking me in every night now?" she asks drily.

Ron's face reddens. "No, I'm—I'm just—"

"You should get some sleep," Hermione mutters.

"Right," Ron replies quietly. "I will. I'm just—g'night, Hermione," he sighs, turning to walk over to his bed across the room.

Hermione pauses, then sits up. "Wait."

Ron stops and looks back at her. He doesn't say anything. He holds his breath, waiting for her to speak again.

"I—I have your shirt."

Ron looks at her blankly.

"Your Cannons shirt. You—you left it behind when you. . . ." she trails off.

"Keep it," he says immediately. "It's yours."

Hermione opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it again. She stares at him, clearly torn between wanting to freeze him out and just give up. She's so bloody tired of being angry with him.

Ron sees her hesitation and makes a split-second decision. "I miss you, Hermione," he says quietly. "So much."

Hermione looks away from him, smoothing her blankets nervously. "I'm right in front you, Ron," she replies in a clipped tone. "But I should get back to sleep if I'm up for watch next."

"Hermione," Ron takes her hand before she can lay back down. "I would do anything to take it back."

Hermione looks at her hand in his. She swallows the lump that's forming in her throat and nods. "I know," she whispers. "I just . . . . I can't right now."

Ron nods slowly. "I wish I could make you understand."

"Then help me understand."

"I've tried, 'Mine. A hundred times."

"No," Hermione shakes her head. "You've told me how sorry you are, how you tried to get back to us right after, how the locket drove you to it. . . . But you won't tell me what drove you away. Why you left. What did the locket say? Harry—he said it was something awful."

"It was," Ron murmurs, looking away from her. "I can't, 'Mine. Not. . . not now, anyway."

"Right, then," Hermione replies, her voice cold. She pulls her hand away from his. "Right. G'night, Ron."

"Hermione. . . ." Ron says helplessly. "Please."

Hermione glares at him. "You want me to forgive you, but you don't trust me. I can't—" her voice breaks and she turns away from him. She lays down, pulling the blankets up under her chin and facing away from him, closing her eyes to stop the tears that are forming.

Ron watches her for another moment. "It was you," he says quietly.

"What?" Hermione sits back up and looks at him.

"You," Ron looks down at his hands. "And Harry. That's what came out of the locket."

"Me and Harry?" Hermione looks confused. "But . . . but I wasn't there. I was here. I didn't even—I didn't even know you were back. I—"

"It wasn't—it was a mirage. A ghost. Something. Whatever, I don't know. But it was you and Harry. Together. Laughing . . . at me."

"I don't understand," Hermione says slowly.

Ron sighs. "Before I left I saw you two—you and Harry—outside. You were laughing together. He took your hand."

"I—" Comprehension dawns on Hermione's face. "It was—it was nothing, Ron," she stammers. "You have to know that."

"The locket—it . . . it magnified everything, made it all worse. You. Harry. You're brilliant and Harry is—well Harry is Harry bloody Potter, the Chosen One, and I'm just . . . well, nobody."

"Ron!"

"You wanted to know how I feel," Ron replies hotly. "Well, I'm telling you!"

Hermione swallows her words and sits silently, waiting for him to continue.

"I felt like you guys didn't need me. Like you'd be better off without me."

"That's not—" Hermione stops talking in response to the warning look on Ron's face.

"Like _you'd_ be better off without me."

Hermione's eyes widen but she says nothing.

"When Harry opened that locket I saw you. You and him. Together."

Hermione looks away.

"I—it was . . . . You told me you could never want me, not with him around. I'd never measure up. You kissed him. You laughed. Told me I wasn't good enough. I'd never be good enough for you." Ron looks down at his hands. He can't look at her.

"Ron," Hermione says gently, reaching for his hand. "You know that's not—don't you? How could you not?"

"What? What do I know, Hermione?" Ron looks at her, pulling his hand out of her grasp. "That you're the 'best witch of your age,'" he mimics Professor Slughorn, "that you and Harry are inseparable, that you chose him over me—"

"No," Hermione says sharply. "I would never—"

"But you did," Ron says softly.

"No, I _didn't_. Ron Weasley, don't you dare. I chose to stay to finish what we started. I made a promise to Harry—and so did you, by the way—and I kept my word. I didn't choose him. It was never about that. I'd never choose _anyone_ over you," Hermione glares at him.

Ron stares at her in silence.

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat and lays down, facing away from him. She curls up into a ball, willing herself not to cry. She doesn't know whether to be elated that Ron clearly cares so much about _this_—about _her_—or devastated that he left _because_ of her—what she made him think. Oi. And what she bloody _did_ with Harry after that. When she wanted Ron. Only _Ron_. Why is everything so bloody complicated?

Ron watches her in silence for a minute before lifting up the blankets covering her and sliding in underneath them, pressing himself against her back and draping the blankets back over both of them. He feels her slide back into him, relaxing against his body, like she has always known this is where she belongs. He puts a strong arm around her and pulls her closer to him. She places her hand on his arm and pulls it close to her.

Hermione lays silently against him for a minute, and then turns to face him—her face inches from his. She can count his individual eyelashes as her eyes lock into his. She reaches out a finger and gently pushes back the fringe covering his eyes.

He smiles at her and leans forward. It happens so quickly, so naturally—she's not even really sure who did it first or how long it lasts. They're just—they just come together. _Finally_. His tongue is in her mouth, and her tongue is in his mouth, and his arms are around her, and her heart is beating so quickly she thinks it might come out of her body. And she's pulling him closer to her, and he's on top of her, and she can't get close enough, and her hands are in his hair and on his back and on his sides and pushing up his shirt and she just wants him so bloody desperately she can't think of anything else right now. Except. Fuck.

"Ron," she whispers, breaking off from another kiss. "I need to—I have to tell you something."

"What?" he's kissing her neck and collarbone and moving his hands down her sides.

"I—oh, I don't even know how to say it," she murmurs.

"You kissed Harry," Ron murmurs back, his face buried in her neck. "I know."

Hermione pushes him away and stares at him in surprise. "You know?"

"Yeah."

"But I—I—you know?"

"Yeah."

"You're not . . ." she hesitates, looking at him. "You're not furious with me?"

"No," he pulls her into him again.

"But—you—the locket—you just told me—I thought you'd be—"

"I'm not," Ron murmurs. "You—you don't . . . ." he hesitates now, too, meeting her eyes. "You don't _want_ him, right?"

"No," Hermione whispers hotly. "Of course not. I want _you._ Only you."

"Okay, then," Ron whispers back, closing the distance between them. "Let's not talk about him, yeah?"

Hermione sighs in relief and lunges toward him again, wrapping her arms around his body and pulling her into him. He manages to get his shirt off, and tugs hers off as well. She gasps as he covers her naked torso with his own, and emits a small moan of pleasure as he starts kissing his way down her body.

"Ron—the—what if he comes in?" Hermione groans as he kisses her breasts.

Ron glances up from Hermione's body, looks at the tent flap and pauses, considering his options. He climbs over Hermione and gets out of bed, quickly crossing the room to grab his own blanket and his wand off his bed.

He walks back to Hermione's bed and grins at her—"Windgardium lev-i_o_-sa," he lifts his wand toward the blanket, which spreads out like a curtain protecting her bed from view.

She giggles. "Very impressive. But you need a leviosa _finite_ to keep it there," she adds.

He raises an eyebrow at her and repeats her words. The blanket stays in place. "Know-it-all," he mutters with a grin. He ducks under the blanket and back into bed with her, right into her waiting arms.

"I love you," she murmurs after he kisses her again.

He freezes, his mouth now on her neck. "What did you say?"

"Oh, bloody hell. I didn't mean to say that aloud," Hermione blushes furiously.

Ron grins as he looks at her. "But you meant to _think_ it, did you?"

Hermione ducks her head, avoiding his eyes. "Shut up," she mutters softly.

"'Mine," Ron grins at her again and tips her face toward his. "I love you, too," he whispers slowly and clearly.

"You do?" Hermione's face lights up as she finally meets his eyes.

"Of course," Ron laughs. "Since probably age 14."

"I've loved you since I was _12_—at _least_," Hermione challenges.

"Oh really?" Ron laughs again, raising an eyebrow at her as he pins her to the bed. "Show me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hermione opens one eye and smiles as she finds herself in the happiest of happy spots—curled up next to Ron. He is currently tangled in her blankets, lying facedown, with one muscular arm draped across her and the other hanging off her bed. And he's _naked_. She feels the blood rushing to her head as she lifts the blankets to peek at his very white bum. He is so beautiful.

She can't help blushing as she touches his hair lightly with her finger. God, how long has she dreamed about this? And here she is, waking up _with him in her bed_. _Naked!_ She feels like screaming with glee, but she's pretty sure this would not be welcomed by anyone else, including her very best friend in the whole world, who is currently sleeping peacefully by her side, oblivious to her state of euphoria.

But she can't stay still. She's giddy in her desire to share this joy.

"Ron," she whispers. "Ron."

"Mmmf."

"Ron," she pokes him.

"Mmffmm." This time he moves slightly, burying his face further into his pillow.

"Good morning," she whispers, trying again. This time she tickles his ear—barely visible under his messy hair—with her lips.

"Mmm," Ron murmurs and finally—finally!—moves his head to the side to face hers. His eye opens and he smiles when he sees her. "'Morning," he mumbles, pulling her closer to him with the arm that's draped over her body.

"Morning," she smiles at him before pushing him over onto his back and arranging herself on his chest, head under his chin. He wraps his arms around her snugly. She basks in the warmth of his strong bare chest against the thin cotton of her—well, _Ron's_—tee shirt.

She feels him yawn. He lifts his arms to stretch them in the air before wrapping them back around her. "What time is it?" he mumbles.

"I don't know," she murmurs as she runs her fingers up and down his chest. "This is real," her whisper is barely audible.

"Yes, it's real," Ron whispers back conspiratorily, kissing her head. She can hear his tone of amusement.

Hermione chuckles and lifts herself up to look at him. "You're a prat," she sticks out her tongue at him.

Ron grins at her sheepishly before leaning forward and touching his tongue playfully to hers. "I am," he whispers back.

She blushes immediately, pulling her tongue back into her mouth.

"And you're naked," she murmurs, touching her nose to his.

He pulls his face away and lifts up the blanket to inspects himself. "_And_ I'm hard," he grins.

She blushes again. She can't believe they're . . . here. Having this conversation. While he's naked. And, she swallows, _hard_—apparently.

"That thing you did last night," he whispers, leaning close to her, pulling her hand under the blanket and over him. "It was so great."

Hermione thinks she may break a record with her blush. She seriously cannot get a handle on her emotions this morning. She runs her fingers over him and he groans, laying back down on the bed, his arms behind his head, eyes closed in delight.

Hermione strokes him gently and then climbs on top of him. He opens his eyes and puts a large hand on each side of her waist, rocking her against him.

"You're—you're—not upset—" Hermione sputters breathlessly, feeling her body respond to him, "that I didn't—we didn't. . . ." She trails off as she moans, feeling the perfect angle of his hardness against her naked folds, rapidly growing wet.

"Didn't?" Ron murmurs, pulling her down to him, pushing her tee shirt up, and putting her breast in his mouth.

"Sex," Hermione splutters, grinding herself against him. "Didn't have—ooh," she moans. "I need to—oh, Merlin, Ron, we need to stop. . . ." But she doesn't heed her own warning as he keeps rubbing against her.

"Not upset," he murmurs in between breasts.

"Goo—good," Hermione manages to spit out between moans, "because it's not that I don't—ooh—want to, it's just . . . . Ooh . . . . Moving so fast. . . ." She trails off again and just gives up on speaking in complete sentences.

"Mmmm," Ron responds. "Oh, fuck, 'Mine, I'm gonna. . . ." He doesn't finish that sentence either.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE.**

"I _so_ don't want to do this, but I'd better get up," Ron sighs, rubbing his eyes and pushing his hair off of his face. Poor Harry must've been out there all night."

"Don't," Hermione whispers, her hand immediately going back to his chest.

"'Mine, I have to," Ron smiles at her apologetically before pulling away. "Bollocks. Where are my clothes?"

He leans over and moves his hand around blindly on the floor, finally landing on what he thinks are his knickers. He manages to locate Hermione's as well, along with her pajama bottoms, which he hands her.

Hermione grudgingly pulls on her nightclothes, watching him in admiration as he maneuvers into his underwear and pulls on his own pajama bottoms. He gives her a once-over, ensuring that she's clothed, before dropping a quick kiss on her cheek, getting to his feet, and pulling down the blanket that's kept them hidden from view.

"Well, good morning," Harry looks up from his seat at the kitchen table. He smiles brightly, his eyes going from Ron to Hermione, and then back to Ron.

"Morning," Ron yawns and crosses the room.

Hermione blushes furiously as Harry eyes her curiously. "So," Harry drawls, his eyes still on a Hermione, who is now combing fingers through her unruly hair. "We're not pretending anymore that you guys aren't a thing, right?"

Ron laughs as he picks up a gray jumper off a neatly folded pile by his bed—clearly Hermione's doing—and crosses back to Hermione's bed. "I reckon probably not."

"Ronald!" Hermione's eyes flash. "_Probably_?"

He looks at her with unabashed affection as he wordlessly hands her his jumper.

"Yes, Harry," Hermione's voice is muffled as she puts it on. "We're obviously a _thing_. So let's move on, shall we?"

"Move on? After seven years? _Move on_? No details, nothing?" Harry pouts mockingly before grinning broadly at Ron, who shakes his head with a grin as he pours a mug of tea for himself.

"_Boys_," Hermione mutters as rolls her eyes. She grabs a change of clothes and heads to the loo.

Harry and Ron both laugh. Ron slides into a chair opposite Harry.

"So . . . all is forgiven, eh, mate?" Harry raises his eyebrows devishly.

"I'd say so," Ron smiles, running a hand through his hair and taking a sip of his tea. "Ouch," he grimaces, pulling away from the tea.

"Sorry," Harry says. "Must've lost track of the kettle. Got distracted by all the noise."

Ron's face reddens. "Thought you were outside, mate; sorry."

"I _was_—for half the night. I just didn't think you two were going to go at it again this morning," Harry laughs. "Otherwise I would've used a silencing charm or something. As it is, we should consider investing in separate tents."

Ron rolls his eyes. "Won't happen again, I promise," he grins, reaching for a piece of burnt toast, which he eyes with displeasure. "Ugh. Someone's gonna have to venture out to a muggle grocery store soon. Reckon I can do it today after we move camp."

"Won't happen again?" Harry raises his eyebrow, ignoring the toast.

"It'll definitely happen again," Ron laughs, "I meant, I'll remember to—you know—silence things better going forward, yeah? I'm new at this."

Harry looks at Ron like he's gone mad. "No, you're not."

"Yeah, I am," Ron insists.

Harry raises an eyebrow. "You pretty much _perfected_ silencing charms when you were shagging Lav—"

"Shut up, Harry," Ron hisses, glancing toward the closed bathroom door.

Harry stares at Ron in confusion.

"She doesn't know about . . . _that_," Ron whispers furiously.

Harry raises an eyebrow, but he keeps his voice low in deference to Ron. "Ron, I'm pretty sure she does, otherwise why did she spend half the year ignoring you _and_—might I add—hating Lavender? Water under the bridge, I'd say."

Ron sighs. "She knows about—I mean, she knows about Lavender _generally_—but she doesn't know that we . . . _you know_."

"Had sex?" Harry whispers conspiratorially, a twinkle in his eye.

"I know you find this all very amusing, but you _know_ Hermione, and I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm a virgin. I'm not sure how she's going to take it when she. . . ." he trails off and shakes his head.

"Finds out that you know what you're _doing_ for once?" Harry finishes Ron's thought, flashing him a grin.

Ron picks up the leftover toast and throws it across the table. Harry ducks with another laugh.

"So you and 'Mione didn't, um. . . .?" Harry asks hesitantly, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

"No," Ron replies quickly, taking another sip of his tea, which has cooled down a bit by now.

"So, you're gonna to tell her?"

"Of course. When—when the time is right."

"After you've had kids, then?" Harry smirks as the bathroom door opens and Hermione comes out, showered and dressed, hair back in a ponytail.

"Loo's all yours, Ron," she smiles at him.

Harry snorts.

"Thanks," Ron smiles back at her, shoots one last glare at Harry, and grabs a change of clothes before locking himself into the bathroom.

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"We need a silencing charm," Ron tells her that night as they lie in her bed, blanket in place.

"Okay," Hermione blushes. "Did Harry, um. . . ."

"Yes."

Hermione's blush deepens. "I'm, um, usually better at these things—I mean, knowing what to . . . do."

Ron's smile could light a thousand lanterns. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her sweetly. "You're perfect."

She snorts. "Hardly. I don't even know—well, it doesn't matter." She reaches for her wand, swiftly taps it into the air with a brisk "muffliato," and slides the wand back onto her night table.

"Done," she smiles shyly at him. She reaches for him again and pulls him on top of her, pushing his mouth open with her tongue. He responds immediately, kissing her deeply while running his hands up and down her body. Tonight he's less hesitant as he pushes up her shirt and helps her tug it off.

She slides her hands under his tee shirt. "Take it off," she murmurs.

He obliges immediately. Next, he pulls off her night shirt, which is actually _his_ tee shirt (again); momentarily, he wonders if her entire night wardrobe consists of his clothing. The thought makes him grin. He throws both their shirts on the floor next to her bed.

He moves on top of her and starts kissing her neck and then her breasts, rolling his tongue over her nipples. She whimpers softly as he works his way down her body. When he reaches her pajama bottoms he feels her tense as he starts pulling them down with his fingers.

He pauses. "Okay?" he murmurs.

She nods immediately, her eyes closed. He pulls them down gently and then reaches for her knickers. He slides his fingers underneath and into her warm folds. He hears her respond with a groan. She puts her hands in his hair and holds him tightly as he pushes her knickers down and off of her body. He kisses down the smooth skin of her stomach and keeps going.

"Oh my god," she whispers as his mouth reaches her most sensitive parts. She is already warm and wet, and he can tell by the gasps that whatever he's doing is working for her. He moves his tongue up and down and inside of her. He feels her tense as she moves herself into his mouth, grinding against his tongue more and more aggressively as she gets closer and closer to—

"Fuck," she whispers as her body begins to spasm against him. Her knees clasp his head firmly—"Oh my god, Ron," she groans, breathing hard, trying to regain some sense of composure.

He pulls her knees lightly apart so that he can extricate himself from her and lightly kisses his way back up to her torso.

"God, Ron, that was . . . that was . . . ." she trails off in a satisfied, sleepy voice. She feels his hardness against her.

"Good?" he grins, finally reaching her mouth. His erection is planted firmly against her, but layers of clothing separate them.

"Take off your pants," she whispers. "Please."

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He sits up and pulls off his flannels and knickers in one quick motion. When he lays against her again it's skin to skin, and he rubs himself against her like he did last night, groaning in desire as his hardness finds her warmth. He wants this so desperately, but he can't—

"Do you know the charms?" she whispers frantically as he's grinding against her.

"Yes," he groans. "Fuck. Are we. . . .?"

"Yes, you want to, don't you?" she gasps.

"Yes—oh god, yes," he groans again. "But I—fuck—'Mine—I—"

"You've done this before," Hermione finishes for him, kissing his neck and runs her hands down the length of his body.

Ron pauses in his movements, caught off guard. "What?"

"I'm not daft, Ron," Hermione whispers, her face buried under his neck as she licks the base of his throat. He groans involuntarily in response.

"I'm—that's not—" Ron stammers while trying to ignore the sensation of his erection against her and the movement of her tongue along his neck, which is driving him literally out of his mind.

"You didn't just do _that_ for the first time—I don't care how many books you stole from George and Fred," she murmurs into his neck.

He lifts up his head and looks at her. "I—fuck. Are you upset?"

"Do I look upset?" she runs a finger down his cheek tenderly.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes wide.

"Lavender shot off her mouth in the girls' dorm, Ron—_all the time_," Hermione sighs as she pushes Ron's ginger fringe out of his eyes. "Sometimes I think it was for my benefit. She was so bloody cocky about it."

Ron looks away from her, a guilty expression in his eyes.

"Talked about your big—whatever—and everything. . . ." Hermione trails off, blushing.

"She _did_?" Ron stares at Hermione in amazement.

"You think guys are the only ones who talk about this stuff?" Hermione smirks.

"Yeah, actually," Ron replies and then laughs. "Yeah, I did."

"Well, there you are. I knew. A year ago. I knew."

"And you're not. . . ."

"Mad?" Hermione offers. "Furious? Hurt?" she pulls him into her for another kiss. She pushes her tongue into his mouth and grinds against him for a full minute before releasing him.

"I'm not," she finally murmurs, when she pulls her face away from his. "I mean, I _was._ But I'm not. How can I be? I _loved_ you, but I couldn't tell you. I was a daft—I don't even know—and so were _you_, by the way—but we can't go back and change things, and I don't even know that I would if I could because didn't all that . . . _stuff_ . . . bring us here, right now?" she looks into his eyes with such love that he thinks his heart might melt right then and there.

"Yeah," Ron whispers. "Yeah, I guess it did."

"And now I know you loved me—even then," Hermione whispers back, running her hands over his face gently.

"I loved you so bloody much," Ron whispers.

"Then that's all that matters to me," Hermione smiles up at him and raises herself to kiss his lips.

"You're bloody amazing, Hermione, you know that?" Ron murmurs in absolute wonder.

"Then you should probably do those charms and shag me now, shouldn't you?"

Ron laughs and shakes his head. "I can't even—you just said that out loud."

"I did," Hermione responds firmly.

"She really said I was big, huh?" Ron grins.

"You're bloody huge, Ron, you arrogant prat; now get on with it," Hermione swats him as he crushes her body with his and kisses her again.

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"You know, we live in a bloody tent, and you look entirely too happy given our current situation," Harry grumbles the next morning.

"Sorry," Ron tries to adopt a more serious look as he stacks Hermione's books together for their next move.

"And I think _she's_ bloody singing in the shower," Harry jerks his head toward the bathroom where, indeed, Ron can hear the faint sound of singing in the background of rushing water.

Ron laughs. "Yup. Sounds like it," he takes the pile of books and deposits it into Hermione's beaded bag. Ron surveys the rest of the tent before heading to his bed and grabbing a stack of clothing.

"She folds it first, you know," Harry mutters.

"Right," Ron replies, putting the clothes back on the bed and grabbing his wand to fold the clothing. "This isn't that much easier than the muggle way, is it?" he says, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry doesn't respond, just goes about the tent packing things up.

"Do you reckon that Luna's dad will know something?" Ron asks to break the silence.

"Ask your girlfriend," Harry mutters. "She's the one who insists we go visit him."

"Right," Ron responds.

When Hermione appears in front of them, fully dressed and with a ridiculously huge smile on her face, Harry rolls his eyes. "I think I liked the two of you better when you were mad at each other."

Hermione laughs. "Don't be silly, Harry. It's much better this way." She eyes the now largely packed up tent approvingly. "Ready?" she asks, looking between Ron and Harry.

They each look around one more time and nod.

"Let's go," Harry says.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX.**

"Holy fuck, that was—that bloody fucking—" Ron gasps breathlessly as he, Hermione, and Harry appears on a hillside in the middle of nowhere.

"He's scared for his daughter, Ron—it's not who he is—" Hermione grabs her side and winces as she looks around them to make sure no Death Eater has followed them.

"Not who he bloody _is_? That piece of traitorous rubbish—" Ron splutters.

"It doesn't matter anymore; we're safe," Harry tries to catch his own breath as the three of them fall to the ground together and replay the events of the last hour in their minds.

"We've got to find somewhere more sheltered than this," Hermione is the first to speak. Her voice is firm and calm. "We've got to move."

"Are you okay?" Ron looks at her, putting a hand on her arm.

"I'm fine," she shakes him off. "I was just—I'm tired. But I'm fine. And we've got to keep moving."

"She's right," Harry says.

Ron sighs, but says nothing else.

They walk in silence for another hour before reaching a secluded wooded area. They get there after dark, which isn't ideal, but Hermione is lagging behind and they've had to stop a few times to let her rest. When they finally get to a spot where they can set up their tent, she looks pale. Harry and Ron quickly put up the tent. Hermione proceeds to set up perimeter charms, but Ron stops her.

"Go inside," he says quietly. "Please."

"I'm fine, Ron," Hermione says. "And I have to—"

"I'll do it."

"I know the charms the best and I always—"

"I'll do it. Go. Please."

Hermione glares at him and stalks off toward the tent.

When she wanders inside Harry is putting on a kettle and setting up warming charms around the tent. "Perimeter okay?"

Hermione shrugs. "_Ron's_ doing it. He made me come in."

Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at her, but says nothing. He wordlessly hands her a mug of hot tea when the kettle boils. Her hands tremble as she accepts it.

Harry notices. "Are you okay?"

"Not you, too."

"You're shaking."

"I'm cold. It's freezing here. Not surprising."

"If you're ill, Hermione—"

"I'm _fine_," Hermione snaps. "Seriously, between you and Ron, you're bloody nursemaids."

Harry shakes his head and heads over to his bed, where he starts pulling items out of Hermione's beaded bag.

When Ron comes inside things are largely arranged. "So—dinner," Ron says, "I'm thinking I'm going to go down to that stream we passed by a while ago and try to magic something out of it."

Harry snorts.

"There's a first time for everything, mate," Ron grins.

Hermione leans her head in her elbows, which are resting on the table.

"'Mine?" Ron looks at her.

She doesn't respond.

"Hermione," Ron says again, crossing the tent to her and touching her back.

"I'm fine, Ron," she murmurs. She sounds exhausted.

"You need to get into bed." He turns to Harry. "Do we have any of that potion—"

"Flu potion—"

"Don't need—" Hermione interrupts.

"Yeah, I think it was in here somewhere," Harry rummages around in the beaded bag, ignoring Hermione's insistent tone.

"Harry, can you get her into bed; I'm gonna go find us something-"

"I think you should, um. . . ." Harry stammers. "I'm—I'll go. . . ."

Ron sighs impatiently and reaches for Hermione. "Up, 'Mine," he says gently, holding her arm.

"I don't need help," Hermione mutters, glaring at him as she unsteadily rises to her feet.

"You're shaking," he says quietly. "And you're pale." His brow furrows as his eyes move up and down her body. "You've gotten so thin."

"You don't seem to mind that when we're in bed," she snaps.

Harry averts his gaze, while Ron flinches as if she hit him.

"I'm worried about you, Hermione," he says quietly. "You're sick. And you don't have much to spare if you stop eating."

In one quick motion, he sweeps an arm under the back of her knees and lifts her into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

She shrieks in surprise as he carries her to her bed and deposits her there. He ignores her protests and covers her with a quilt and then pulls a second one from his bed, tucking her into bed and putting a hand on her forehead.

"Stay," he says to her, removing his hand and planting a kiss there. He turns to Harry. "Give her the potion and make sure she doesn't move. I'll go see about dinner."

"Right," Harry holds out a small vial of potion in his fist; Ron nods in silent thanks and grabs his coat before leaving the tent.

Harry clears his throat and conjures a spoon. "Um, 'Mione, probably best to take this, yeah?" he approaches her cautiously.

Hermione looks at him crossly. "He's overprotective."

"He's worried about you."

"He thinks he can control me now that we're shagging."

"He's—what? I didn't—I didn't know you were—"

"Oh," Hermione turns red. "Well, in any case—"

"He'd act this way whether you were . . . or not, you know that."

Hermione crosses her arms, but doesn't argue with Harry. She takes the spoonful of potion and grimaces. "Water," she coughs.

Harry fumbles for his wand. "Accio water," he says quickly. He offers Hermione a glass.

"Thanks," she whispers gratefully.

Harry bites his lower lip thoughtfully. "You shouldn't. . . ." he trails off.

"What, Harry?" Hermione sighs, pushing her head back into her pillow.

"It's just—I know how you felt when he left. And maybe you're—I don't know—trying to protect yourself or whatever—"

"I'm not—"

"—but you have to know he's not going to leave again, and—"

"I know that—"

"—he's—you're—you were bloody miserable without him. When you get angry with him for taking care of you, you should remember the alternative."

Tears fill Hermione's eyes.

"I didn't mean to make you—"

"You didn't. I just—"

"I just remember how bad things were and—"

"I know that. But we have so much more to do and I can't be—"

"—he wants to make sure you're okay—"

"—a drag on you—"

"—and you need rest. What?"

"What?"

Harry laughs. "I don't even—what are you even—"

"I'm—I don't know," Hermione smiles weakly, wiping her eyes. "I'm sick."

"I know."

Harry pauses awkwardly, glancing behind him at the tent flap. "Did you ever tell him about. . . .?"

"The—the thing?" Hermione hesitates.

"The thing?"

"The kiss—is that what—"

"Yes," Harry blushes.

"Yes. But he knew—you—"

"Yes. I—I figured if he heard it from you and not me, he'd never talk to me again. Possibly throw me back in the lake where he rescued me from."

Hermione laughs; it turns into a cough.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she says weakly.

"I told him right after he got back. Couldn't risk not. . . ."

"He's—he wasn't angry. I thought he'd be. . . ."

"He blames himself."

"He always blames himself."

"The two of you. Finally."

It's Hermione's turn to blush. "He's . . . I'm in love with him, Harry."

"I know that."

"So."

"So."

"We're shagging, and you didn't know."

"I didn't."

"You knew about . . . her, didn't you?"

Harry stares at Hermione. "I'm, um, not sure what we're talking about."

Hermione grins at him. "Liar."

Harry laughs.

"Lavender. Ron. Sex. You knew. Yes?"

"Did he, um. . . ."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Yes, he, um," she mimics Harry. "But I already _knew_, you idiot. Boys, you are so. . . ." she shakes her head, smiling at him affectionately.

"Well, I told him you already knew, and he insisted. . . ." Harry trails off, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He smiles apologetically.

"She was a loudmouth."

"In more ways than one, apparently," Harry murmurs.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Hermione laughs. "I survived by convincing myself he was thinking of me when he was . . . doing whatever to her."

"Probably a safe bet," Harry muses.

"Do you miss her?"

"_Lavender_?"

"Ginny."

"What?"

"_Ginny._ Your girlfriend. Excuse me, _ex_-girlfriend."

"Transitions, 'Mione, have you heard of them?"

"This _is_ my transition. We're talking about past screw-ups and I thought of you—and Ginny."

"Thanks," Harry says drily.

"Do you love her?"

"Wow. I, um—that's—that's a loaded question. And you're usually more subtle."

"Cold medicine."

"Oh, yeah, blame it on that."

"I will, thanks. So?"

"So. I don't—I don't know. I mean, I . . . care for her. A lot. She's—she's incredible."

"She is."

"And beautiful."

"She is."

"And whip smart."

"Definitely."

"And Ron's sister."

"Most assuredly."

"Would be quite awkward if we ever broke up."

"You're broken up right now."

"You know what I mean."

"Harry, don't be an idiot."

"You're really free flowing with your compliments tonight, 'Mione."

"You're my best friend. My _second_-best friend," she grins at him. "I want you to be happy."

"Oi, now that you're disgustingly coupled up, everyone around you has to be, too. You're _that_ person."

"Yeah, I am," Hermione laughs; it turns into another cough.

"Get some rest, matchmaker. Ron'll hex me if I keep you up. We can talk about Ginny tomorrow."

"Nice dodge."

"Seriously, your boyfriend's bigger than me. And a bit scary when it comes to you."

Hermione grins. "He looooves me."

"That he does," Harry chuckles. "And now I _know_ that medicine has you loopy. Go to sleep, crazy."

"Wake me if he magics any fish."

"He won't."

"But if he does."

"I will."

"Liar." But she's already yawning and her eyes are slipping shut.

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When Ron returns, he looks triumphant, holding two dead fish with a beaming smile on his face. Glancing at the finger Harry holds to his lips—nodding his head toward Hermione—Ron silently holds his prizes up to Harry.

"Nice," Harry says quietly.

"Didn't think I could do it," Ron whispers with a grin.

"I didn't," Harry agrees, raising an eyebrow. "And why are you covered with mud?"

"Well," Ron looks sheepish, "it took some doing. How is she?" He looks back to Hermione.

"Most definitely ill. But she nodded off pretty quickly after the potion."

"Good," Ron replies, looking at her with concern. "We can't move her until she's better."

"I know," Harry sighs, following Ron's eyes to Hermione's sleeping frame. "So," he looks back at Ron. "How are we going to—you know—cook those things?"

Ron looks momentarily flummoxed as he considers this. "I don't know," he admits. "Our cook is sound asleep."

Harry rolls his eyes and smiles. "How hard can it be? We'll figure it out." He grabs a plate and directs Ron to put the fish onto it. "But you should, um, go clean up. You're disgusting."

"Thanks, mate," Ron grins. He grabs a towel and heads to the bathroom.

When Ron returns he's freshly clothed and mud-free. Harry is still staring at the dead fish, now sitting on a plate on the table, in disgust.

"See you've made a lot of progress on that," Ron grins.

"Well, I'm trying to think of what your mum does."

"My mum," Ron responds dreamily. "She'd have a delicious beef stew and bangers and mash and—"

"Not helping, Ron."

Ron sighs. "Well . . . we just need a fire, yeah?" He raises his wand and aims it at one of the dead fish bodies—"Incendio fish."

Instantly a flame overtakes one of the fish and chars it to a harsh black. "Hmm," Ron considers his handiwork. "Probably not that one, then."

Harry groans. "And there goes half of our dinner."

"Well, mate, you weren't doing any better," Ron says defensively. He pockets his wand again.

"How about we just try to roast it on the fire outside?"

"That might work," Ron concedes.

He follows Harry outside the tent and locates a couple of sticks to spear through the last remaining fish. He hands them to Harry, who spears the fish and holds it out over the fire.

"Turn it," Ron suggests. "You know, like a roaster. . . . 'Mine says she used to do this with marshmallows when she and her dad went camping," he murmurs, staring at the flames surround the fish.

"Pity you couldn't have remembered that five minutes ago," Harry says drily.

Ron chuckles and rubs his hands together. "Think we'll ever be able to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hang out roasting marshmallows for the bloody hell of it. Just . . . relaxing," Ron leans back against one of the tent poles and looks up at the stars in the dark sky. "After. . . ."

"Merlin, I hope so," Harry sighs. "If this is it for us, then Vol—he who shall not be named may as well strike me down now."

"It's not _that_ awful," Ron smiles. "I mean, other than the lack of food, warmth, a comfortable bed, Quidditch. . . ."

"Oh, please," Harry rolls his eyes. "You have Hermione—_of course_ it's not awful for you. And, by the way, you lied to me the other day."

"Lied?" Ron looks blankly at Harry.

"Yeah. Hermione, drunk off that potion—god, she's a lightweight—told me you're _shagging._"

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. You told me you weren't."

"We weren't. When I told you that."

"I expected an update."

Ron snorts.

"Come on—I don't even think Lavender was out of your _bed_ when you informed our entire Quidditch team that—"

"I wasn't _that_ bad," Ron laughs.

"Yeah, you were—a total prat," Harry grins. "Cormac McLaggen would've been proud."

"Ouch."

"Indeed."

"This is different, anyway."

"True. You can only lose your virginity once."

Ron rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

Harry sighs. "Yeah. . . . It took you, what, two days to go from nothing to _everything._"

"Well, two days and seven years, yeah."

Harry laughs and shakes his head. "And I was right about Lavender."

"You were right about Lavender," Ron grins sheepishly. "Take it off now, I think."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Looks . . . edible."

"After we take it off the bones, anyway," Ron looks disgusted as he holds the fish up by the tail, unsure how to approach the task.

"Inside," Harry nods his head back toward the tent. "We can use a knife and fork and try it that way."

"Right," Ron stands and wipes the dirt off the back of his pants before following Harry back into the tent.

He deposits the now-cooked fish onto a fresh plate and stares at it briefly before taking the knife and fork Harry hands him and starting to dissect it. "Too bad we never learned this at Hogwarts," he mutters.

"There are a lot of things we never learned at Hogwarts," Harry throws himself onto a chair glumly. "How to survive in the bloody wilderness for months on end is just one of them."

"Cheer up, mate," Ron grins, pushing a plate toward Harry. "Dinner is served. Should I wake Hermione up and try to get some food into her?"

"_This_ food?" Harry raises an eyebrow, surveying the piece of fish in distaste.

"Well . . . some toast, then?"

"Nah. Best to let her sleep, I think. In her fevered state she was nattering on about me and Ginny."

"Oh yeah?" Ron raises an eyebrow. He lifts a forkful of fish into his mouth, slowly chews, and grimaces. "Merlin, I wish mum were here."

"Do you now?" Harry grins. "Think she'd approve of the new sleeping arrangements?"

Ron laughs. "I wish she could at least send Pig with some non-shite food. I miss Pig," he says wistfully.

He's silent for a moment before looking back at Harry in interest. "So, what's this about Gin?"

"Nothing," Harry says quickly. He pauses and then looks down at his plate. "Do you think she's . . . thinking about me?"

Ron stares at Harry in confusion. "You're asking _me_ this question?"

Harry sighs. "Yeah, well, our friend who comprehends human emotion is bedridden at the moment."

Ron laughs and pops a piece of charred fish into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully. "Gin was really into you last year, mate. I'm sure she's thinking of you."

Harry twirls his fork awkwardly and looks down at his place. "I follow her. On the map."

"Huh?"

"The Marauder's map. Sometimes I just sit and follow her dot."

"True love."

"Fuck you," Harry grins. "I guess I _could_ express my undying affection for her by shagging someone else, but that idea was taken."

Ron laughs and shoves another piece of fish into his mouth.

"You think she'd-she _will_ want me back?"

"Sure," Ron shrugs. "Why not?"

"Because we've been apart for months. Because I broke up with her. Because she's been at Hogwarts on her own—with lots of other blokes to keep her company. Because everyone who's close to me gets hurt or dies. Because I may not make it out of this bloody war alive."

"You're really selling your strong points, mate."

Harry sighs. "Do you think about that?"

"You and Ginny?" Ron raises an eyebrow.

"Dying," Harry says sharply.

Ron pauses. "Yeah."

"Because of me."

"Not because of you. Never because of you. Because of _him_."

"You have a family. You're a pureblood. You _know_ you could walk out of here tomorrow—"

"Already tried that—didn't work out so well."

"You know what I mean, Ron. You could take Hermione, take her back to your family—"

"And what? Hide for the rest of our lives? Bloody hell, Harry. Don't you get it? There _is_ no life unless we win this war. You think this is just about you? It's not. It's about me and Hermione and my family and her family and Hogwarts and every person we left back there. Ginny, too."

Harry winces at her name. "I just don't know how things got this bad. Bloody Death Eaters trying to kill us on a daily basis. Voldemo—"

"No, Harry!"

"—rt. _Fuck_."


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN.**

He's dead. . . ." Harry holds a lifeless Dobby in his hands and stares down at his body, unsure what to do next.

Ron holds Hermione tightly in his arms as they sit on the beach. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. One more fucking death. Hermione shivers next to him. He opens his eyes and pulls her closer to him. She leans her head on his shoulder. She looks drained.

"Let's close his eyes, Harry," Luna says gently as she approaches Harry and Dobby.

Harry nods and swallows as he watches Luna gently slide Dobby's lids shut. "There," she whispers. "Now he could be sleeping."

"Are you alright?" Bill Weasley shouts at them as he and Fleur come hurrying down the beach.

"Come," Fleur says gently to Harry, seeing the little body in his arms. "The others are already inside—Mr. Ollivander, Dean, that . . . goblin. . . ."

"I want to bury him," Harry looks at Ron. "Not with magic."

Ron nods. "Let me get her inside and then—"

"I can do it myself, Ron," Hermione interrupts, but without her usual indignance. She's ill and bloody exhausted on top of it.

"Right," Ron stands and pulls her to her feet, then lifts her into his arms.

"Ron!"

"Hermione, you're bloody lucky to be alive. Not to mention you shouldn't have been out of bed in the first—"

"I tried explaining that to the snatchers, but they—"

"I'm taking you upstairs and putting you to bed, and that's final."

Hermione opens her mouth and closes it again, thinking better of it. She leans against Ron's chest and lets him carry her inside, following Bill.

Fleur walks behind him, leading Luna and Harry, still holding Dobby's lifeless form, silently.

"Upstairs, room to the right," Bill indicates to Ron. He looks back at Harry as Ron heads up the stairs with Hermione. "Harry, why don't you leave Dobby here for a minute. How about some food before you start digging a massive hole in the yard, eh?"

Harry shakes his head stubbornly. "Just a couple shovels will do."

Bill sighs. "Follow me, then."

Upstairs, Ron kicks open the door to one of the guest rooms and deposits Hermione gently onto the neatly made bed. "Thanks," she murmurs.

"Anytime," he smiles at her and pulls a blanket off a nearby chair.

"Stay with me," Hermione whispers, grabbing his arm as he covers her with the blanket.

"I've gotta go help Harry," Ron murmurs, sitting down on the bed next to her and pushing some stray hair off her face. He kisses her forehead softly. "I'll be back as soon as I can, okay? I'll ask Fleur to come up and . . . take care of this," he touches her arm where the word "Mudblood" has been cut into it.

"It's nothing, Ron," Hermione pulls her arm away from him and shoves it under the blanket.

Ron sighs. "It's not nothing, 'Mione. Please. Just let Fleur help you. For me."

Hermione nods, tears in her eyes. "I thought she was going to kill me."

Ron's eyes darken, remembering the terror he felt hearing her screaming for her life, the helplessness he'd felt being locked in a cellar unable to get to her, unable to do anything but angrily pound on the walls, crying her name.

"I heard you down there," she murmurs, reaching for his hand.

"I didn't know what to do," Ron whispers. "I felt so . . . bloody helpless. I heard you screaming. I knew she was torturing you and I couldn't—I couldn't bloody save you."

"You _did_ save me," Hermione smiles tenderly up at him. "I'll add it to the list of the reasons I love you."

Ron grins. "I'm glad you're keeping a list."

Hermione laughs. "Go," she pushes him gently. "Go help Harry dig Dobby's grave. And then come back to me."

Ron kisses her lips gently and stands up. "Right, then," he says. "I'll be back soon. I'm sending Fleur up here," he adds with a backward glance as he leaves the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT.**

"We need to find a way of getting in," Harry paces across the sitting room in Bill and Fleur's house.

"Yeah, we'd need Bellatrix," Ron snorts. "Think she'd be willing to lend us a hand?"

"We'd only need a piece of Bellatrix's hair," Hermione says slowly.

"And where are we going to get that?" Ron asks.

"From me," Hermione rises from the couch and quickly disappears without another word.

Ron and Harry look at one another in confusion.

"How could she. . . .?" Harry asks.

"Beats me," Ron shrugs.

"If she were Bellatrix—"

"No," Ron says sharply.

"But Ron, she could—"

"I said _no_."

Harry sighs. "A year ago you told me we couldn't do this without her, and now you're—"

"She was _tortured_, Harry—"

"She's better now, she's—"

"Better?" Ron snaps. "She has nightmares every bloody night. I've been putting silencing charms on her bedroom since we got here. Does that seem _better_ to you?"

Harry swallows and looks away. "I didn't know. You didn't say anything."

"Because she won't let me! She thinks that they'll go away, that one night she won't wake up picturing"—he lowers his voice to a whisper—"Bellatrix carving her up, holding her down by the throat. You think this is what she needs right now?"

"I don't—I don't know—"

"It's _enough_. She's had _enough_. Whatever you want to do—whatever you think we'll find in that vault—it'll be without her."

"She won't agree."

"She will."

"She won't," Harry insists, keeping his voice quiet. "You _know_ her, Ron. You think she's going to sit home with Bill and Fleur and let us walk into that bank—not knowing if. . . . She's not."

"She's not what?" Hermione casts a suspicious glance between Harry and Ron as she re-enters the sitting room, holding something tightly in her fist.

Ron looks at her with a slightly guilty expression, which he quickly transforms into a smile. "What do you have?"

Hermione holds out a sticky note to Ron, a triumphant smile on her face.

Ron narrows his eyes. "What _is_ this?" he accepts the sticky note from Hermione and examines it closely.

"It's a strand of her hair."

Ron exhales sharply, carefully separating the long strand of black hair from the note. "How did—how—"

"When she was—I saved some just in case."

"You're sure that's . . . hers." Harry says quietly.

"I'm sure," Hermione nods.

"Okay," Ron replies, carefully putting the strand back on the sticky note and handing it back to Hermione.

"And I'm sure Fleur has a dress she can lend me," Hermione continues. "Black. Something depressing," she chuckles.

Harry looks at Ron, but doesn't say anything.

Ron runs a hand through his hair and looks at Hermione. "Can we talk?" he asks her quietly.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Alone."

Hermione narrows her eyes, but doesn't respond. She turns on her heel and leads Ron out of the room. He follows her up the stairs to her bedroom, and closes the door behind them.

"Sit," he says gently. "Please."

Hermione sits on the bed and Ron sits next to her. "You're not going with us."

"Excuse me?"

"To Gringott's. You're not going with us."

"Bloody hell I'm not," Hermione rises from the bed.

"'Mine, please," Ron rises with her and pulls her back down next to him. "Can you just listen to me?"

"No, I will not. I will not just listen to you. I'm going. We've done _everything_ together. _Everything_. I'm not going to let you go in there without me."

"'Mine, no one's ever successfully—"

"—broken into Gringotts, I know."

"People have _died_ in there. Griphook says there's a bloody _dragon_ in there. I just want you to be safe. I _need_ you to be safe. After the Malfoys. . . ." he trails off.

"What does _safe_ even mean anymore? If we don't get rid of these horcruxes and he who shall not be named wins, I die. Or get carted off to Azkaban."

"I'll never let that happen," Ron says sharply.

"I'm a _mudblood_"—Ron cringes at Hermione's casual use of the term—"remember?"

"Don't use that word."

"That's what I am to them. You can pretend it doesn't matter, but it does," Hermione gently raises her sleeve where the remnants of the "mudblood" carving from two weeks prior is still faintly visible, despite Fleur's healing charms.

Ron takes her wrist and gently kisses the skin over the scar.

Hermione tousles his hair. "And you're a blood traitor," she smiles softly.

Ron grimaces but says nothing.

"They hate your kind almost as much as they hate mine. What do you think is going to happen to us if—if he _wins_? Do you think they'll let us be together? Do you think they'll let _you_ be with me?"

"You know I don't give a bloody fuck about their blood _order_."

"They're killing people like me," Hermione says quietly. "Right now, Ron. They're shipping us off."

"I will never let anyone take you away from me."

"I know that, Ron. So let's fight it. _Together_. And if we beat him, then we have our whole lives ahead of us. I want to be part of that. I _need_ to be part of that."

"You _are_ part of that. A huge part of that. But this—this is insane. If it doesn't work—"

"Then I'll be there with you when it doesn't. I'm telling you right now, I love you more than anything in the entire world, and you are _not_ leaving me behind."

Ron sighs.

"If we beat him. . . ." she whispers.

"If. . . ." Ron murmurs, burying his face in Hermione's hair and breathing in her scent. She smells like wild flowers and mint.

"Ron. . . ." she pulls back from him and looks into his eyes. "We have to believe."

Ron pauses, a sad smile on his lips. "I believe in you," he says softly, kissing her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine.**

A/N. Thanks so much to everyone for the feedback on this (and other) stories! Just getting my sea legs and I really appreciate the reviews (good and bad). sounds like I may have struck a nerve with some on the Harry-Hermione stuff. I hear you, even if I don't agree. and i do appreciate everyone's views. thank you again!

* * *

"You need to rest," she tells him quietly.

"I need to help," he chokes out.

"You need to rest," she repeats—more firmly this time.

"There's more that I can—"

"_No_. He's gone"—her voice breaks—"and it's over. There's nothing more. There's nothing more."

His face crumples and the tears he's been holding back for hours—days? weeks? months?—come bursting forth. She holds him tightly—like he always holds her—and presses him into her body, willing her strength into him, praying that he'll be okay, that his family will be okay.

"I'm—I'm—" he stammers, gulping air, between sobs.

"Shhh," she whispers, holding him against her and running her hand through his hair. Her eyes are closed and she focuses on the feeling of his body, trembling against her; she breathes against him; willing him to breathe in sync with her. She would hold him forever if she could.

When he finally pulls away his face is raw, streaked in tears. He wipes his eyes and his nose with the back of his hand and pushes her away.

"Don't," she puts both hands on the sides of his face and pulls him back toward her. "_Don't_."

His mouth trembles as he meets her eyes.

"Don't," she whispers again, locking her eyes into his.

He closes his eyes and lets out a guttural moan, collapsing against her again. She wraps her arms around him even more tightly, closing her own eyes, feeling the tears pour down her cheeks. She holds him like there is nothing else. Nothing else but this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten.**

Rain drops splatter against his bedroom window at the Burrow. Hermione lies next to him sleeping. He shifts his body from one side to the other and then back again. It doesn't help. Finally he sits up—carefully so as not to wake her—and gets out of bed. He pulls on a tee shirt and some flannels, and pads quietly to the bedroom door, easing himself out of his bedroom as quietly as possible.

When she notices he's gone—is it minutes or hours later?—she panics. Don't, she thinks, forcing herself to breathe deeply as she sits up and presses her hand against his empty pillow, now cool to the touch. _Don't_. She tells herself what she's been telling Ron for three days straight: Don't panic. Don't pull away. Don't hide. Don't. _Don't_.

Her eyes adjust to the darkness. His bedroom is empty. She grabs one of his sweatshirts from the floor and pulls it over herself, searching for her pajama bottoms—discarded hours ago in the midst of the only thing that seems to bring Ron out of his depression these days—for a little while, anyway. But then it's over and he pulls away from her again, falling back into a deep, unyielding darkness. She desperately wants to reach him—in the moments when he's not _literally_ inside of her—but she has her own demons to contend with, and how can she save him when she can't even save herself?

In her more rational moments, Hermione can almost convince herself that these things take time and that they'll be okay and that their love is strong enough to overcome _anything_. But in her less rational moments, Hermione rails against the injustice of it all—she waited for so fucking _long_ for this. For _time_ with him. For the happiness and lightness and tranquility that was supposed to come along with winning this fucking war. And now all they _have_ is time—it eats away at them. Suffocates them.

When Hermione finally finds him, he's sitting outside on the front steps of the Burrow, staring out into the dark rain. The crickets chirp loudly. The air is fresh—clean and cool. She breathes it in as she makes her way to his side and sits next to him, her leg brushing against his. She doesn't say anything, just pulls his sweatshirt around her more tightly to ward away the slight chill of the damp air. He doesn't say anything either. He just keeps staring ahead into the darkness—as if he's looking for something, _waiting_ for something. Staring into the night. Or is it morning already? Hermione doesn't know.

All she knows is that she'll sit here forever with him on this front porch if that's what he needs. She slides her hand into his, and he accepts it, squeezing her hand with his own. She loves him more than anything, and that's all that matters now. For the first time days, a sense of peace settles over her. They sit together in silence, watching the rain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven.**

Hermione's nightmares aren't getting better. It's 4:30 a.m. and Ron is up, pacing the floor. It's bloody hard getting any sleep these days, what with Fred being _dead_ and time not healing all wounds, which they say time is supposed to fucking do.

Granted, it's only been weeks—not years or even _months_—and Ron prays to every fucking god there may be that there is something more than this—this deep, dark depression that hangs over everything and _everyone_ at the Burrow.

But god, whoever he is, doesn't seem to be listening. Because his mum still can't sleep and has dark ugly circles under her eyes. And George is still shut up in his room like a fucking zombie. And Percy cries all the bloody time—he just bursts into tears at dinner, which is fucking weird. And Ginny and Harry are still oddly distant from one another—given that Harry followed her bloody dot on his Marauder's Map for months, Ron figured that they'd be—well, he doesn't know what he expected they'd bloody be, but something more than what they are, which isn't much.

And Hermione. She won't even _look_ at the scar on her forearm but it's never _not_ there—it's like a fucking wall between her and everyone else. Ron can see it in her eyes and he can hear it in her screams when she wakes up crying at 2 a.m. Or 3. or 4. When he's holding her tightly in his arms and rocking her while she sobs. Like she's broken. Like she'll never be fixed. Will she? Will they? Will any of this ever get better?

So, when he finds his mum staring blankly into a mug of tea in the kitchen at 4:30 a.m., Ron takes a second mug and joins her wordlessly. Hermione's sleeping now, and he hopes that she'll sleep for a few hours at least. He's bloody exhausted.

And when his mum looks at him—just _looks_ at him—Ron crumbles. He doesn't even how it happens. But she's there and he feels so small all of the sudden, so powerless, so weak. He starts sobbing. Into his mum's arms. He can feel them encircle him tightly. He'll always be her little boy, he supposes, and right now, he needs to feel that again. So badly. I need help. I need _help_.

His mum brushes away the fringe from his eyes and holds him close and shushes his cries and whispers soothing words to him while he utterly loses it. God, I can't fucking keep it together for five bloody minutes, he silently curses himself.

When he finally settles down and pulls away from his mum, he sees that she's been crying with him. They're in this thing together—this shitty excuse for a post-Fred world.

"Why are you up?" his mum finally asks him, softly. She gently runs a finger along his cheek, brushing a tear away.

"I need help," he murmurs. "I need your help, mum."

Molly waits and watches him. Her eyes are filled with undisguised affection for her youngest son.

"It's—it's Hermione," he stammers. "She's—she's really—it's really bad, mum."

"What is it, love?" his mum's voice is gentle, soothing. God, how he's missed his mum's _mothering_. How did he never realize how bloody lucky he was . . . _before_? _Before _the war. It's not fair that he—and Harry and Hermione—have had to go it alone for so bloody long. It's not right that he's had to grow up so bloody quickly. That he's already faced death a dozen times over. That he had to listen to Hermione—that he had to feel it in his _bones_—feel her getting tortured by that evil bitch Bellatrix Lestrange. It's not normal that he had to watch his brother die. His favorite brother, if he's being bloody honest with himself. What kind of bloody hell is this?

"Ron," his mum repeats quietly. "Tell me. Let me help."

Ron looks down at the table. "She's—I don't—she's—she's been having nightmares. Horrible, awful nightmares."

Molly doesn't respond, but her eyes betray a hint of something—something almost imperceptible. _He_ knows she's been having nightmares. He's been with her to know.

Ron swallows and hesitates, looking up to meet his mum's eyes. He knows what he's revealed, but he can't tell her what's wrong and not reveal _this_ at the same time. "She's—it's almost every night now. I don't—I don't know what to do."

"What are they about?" Molly asks gently, deciding to sidestep the acknowledgment of her son's sleeping arrangements at the Burrow. Of all the issues facing her right now—in this _post-war world_—where Hermione is sleeping seems so utterly unimportant now.

"She was . . . I don't know if I can tell you, mum. I don't know. . . ."

"There have been too many secrets, Ron," Molly's voice is tired as she puts her hand over his. "Too many. Too many awful things. Please."

Ron sighs and rubs his face, hoping for some wisdom from above. It doesn't come. He sighs again. "She was . . . she was tortured"—he hears Molly draw in a breath sharply, but she mercifully stays silent—"and—it was at the—it was at the Malfoys' place. We were—we were caught by snatchers and they took us to the Malfoys, and Bellatrix—Bellatrix did . . . did things to her. Carved her up," the words are tumbling out now faster than he can control them. "And it was so awful, mum, and I heard her screaming. And Bellatrix crucio'd her—_over and over_—and I thought she was going to die. And every scream—it was the worst thing I've ever heard in my whole life—it was the _scaredest_ I've ever been in my whole life—and when we got out of there it was—she was—it was. . . ." he trails off, wringing his hands together.

Molly closes her eyes and breathes deeply, willing herself to remain calm for Ron's sake.

"She—it's been ever since," Ron says quietly. "She's been having them ever since. It's always the same. She's—Bellatrix is—and Hermione sees it. She's living it over and over and _over_. And I can't—there's nothing I can do—I can't—I can't get it out of her and—" he breaks off helplessly. "I can't—I wish I could make them go away. I thought—I thought maybe now, now that we're here, but it's not. . . ." he trails off again, unable to complete his thought.

Molly nods slowly, comprehension dawning as to the depths of horrors that her son experienced this year away from her and Arthur's protection. Her face crumples again and she pulls him back into her arms. She holds him tightly for several minutes, not saying a word. When she finally releases him, she wipes her eyes and sniffles. "My baby. I had no idea."

"It's okay, mum," Ron mumbles. "It really is. It's just—"

"It's not okay," Molly whispers. "_None_ of this is okay."

"How do I—how can I help her?" Raw fear and anguish is evidence on Ron's face as he looks at his mother in desperation.

Molly swallows and shakes her head. "She's—every night?"

"Maybe not every. Almost every. Maybe every. I can't keep track. I'm barely sleeping. She's barely sleeping. It's a bloody mess. Everything is a bloody mess."

"It happened . . . tonight?"

Ron nods silently, looking down at the table.

"I didn't hear. . . ."

"I've been—I've been . . . using silencing charms," Ron looks away from his mum, his face red as he prays that she not address the unspoken—and probably obvious, at this point—_other_ reason that her son might be using silencing charms in his bedroom with his girlfriend who is supposed to be sleeping in Ginny's room.

He's grateful—again—that his mum doesn't acknowledge this. Instead, she brushes his hair out of face gently. "She needs to see a healer," Molly says quietly. "An emotional healer. Merlin knows we _all_ do," she sighs.

"I've—I've raised that idea," Ron says, almost timidly. "She—she doesn't want to. She says she doesn't need it—that—that she'll be—that _we'll_ be fine."

"She's not fine. These things don't just go away because you want them to."

Ron swallows hard and puts his face in his hand. "I don't know what to do."

Molly pulls his hands gently away from his face. "I'll talk to her," she says. "Let me. I'll talk to her this morning."

"She'll be angry with me, mum. She'll be—she'll think I've betrayed her, she'll think—"

His mum's eyes flash. "Ronald Weasley, don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ second guess what you've done. You are so strong, so kind. You have so much love in that heart of yours," her eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head again. "I am so proud of you, my love," she whispers.

Ron offers his mum a weak smile. "Mum, I—"

"You are my son," Molly says fiercely. "And you are protecting the person you love. And you are _not _alone anymore. You don't have to do _anything_ alone anymore," she grasps his hand. "Do you hear me?"

Ron swallows and nods silently, squeezing his mum's hand, feeling so very grateful for her presence right now.

Molly squeezes his hand back. "We're going to get through this together, you know. _All_ of us."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N. **Thanks so much for all of the feedback! I continue to be grateful. Here's a chapter that comes directly as a result of such feedback-for those who were unhappy that I gave short shrift to Ron's feelings in the tent, this one's for you. As is probably evident from Chapter 2, I thought it was pretty natural for Harry/Hermione to get together in a really stressful time. They care about each other, they were alone for weeks on end, and they turned to each other seeking comfort, and then quickly realized how stupid it was to do so. But I get that I hit some people's hot buttons-and not in a good way. I also get that you were unhappy with Ron's calm reaction. Again, I thought it was pretty natural for Ron to feel resigned about the whole thing, particularly since Harry was honest and upfront, and quite sorry about it-but what the hell. Here's a retcon for you! Hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

**Chapter Twelve.**

"Hey, can I join you?" Harry finds Ron sitting by Fred's grave in the garden.

Ron doesn't look at Harry, but hearing no objection, Harry sits down on the ground next to him.

"You okay?" he asks tentatively.

"Sure," Ron mumbles. Unconvincingly.

"Your dad says Kingsley wants to see us."

"Great."

"He's waited as long as he can, yunno. . . ."

"Right."

"It's been weeks. . . ."

"Yeah."

"And he needs to talk to us about . . . stuff."

"Of course."

"I think it's about the executive order."

"Brilliant."

"You still want this, don't you, Ron?" Harry looks at Ron sideways.

Ron pauses. "I don't know what I want, Harry."

A look of panic briefly crosses Harry's face. "Are you . . . are you thinking of going back to school instead . . . with Hermione?"

Ron laughs. But it's not one of mirth—it's more like . . . Harry can't think of the way to describe it . . . bitterness? "No."

Harry ignores Ron's tone, and sighs in relief. "Good, 'cause I don't think I could do this without you."

"Do what?" Ron asks. He doesn't seem particularly interested in the answer, though.

"I don't know," Harry gestures around him. "Life. Whatever this new life is, anyway. Beyond all the Chosen One bullshit."

Ron tears his eyes away from Fred's grave and looks at Harry. "What do you want, Harry?"

"I—uh—just wanted to check on _you_," he stammers.

"I don't mean—I mean, what do you _want_?"

"I don't know," Harry replies slowly. "Join the Ministry? Keep fighting—I don't know, the same things you want, I—I think. I _thought_."

Ron pulls his knees into his arms and puts his chin on one of his knees. He looks back at Fred's grave. He doesn't respond.

Harry clears his throat and adopts a bright tone. "We could move into—I thought we could move into Grimmauld Place, you know? Get out of here. Go to work and—"

"Live happily ever after?" Ron's voice drips with contempt.

Ron's tone stings Harry to the core. "That's not—that's not—but what's wrong with _finally_ having a little peace of mind?" he stumbles over his words.

Ron's hostility has caught him off guard. Granted, Ron has been distant toward Harry since they returned from Hogwarts—but Ron's been distant toward _everyone_. Except for Hermione, anyway. And Harry's tried to give him and Hermione space—he's moved into _Percy's_ room, for Merlin's sake—and Percy is an aggravating prat on his best day. Even now that he's seen fit to rejoin the Weasley family. Even now that he seems genuinely remorseful for what an aggravating prat he's been for coming up on two—or is it three?—years.

Of course, Harry had hoped that the sleeping arrangements would be different—slightly more _even_, anyway—with Hermione and Harry proving an equivalent swap, or so he thought—but Ginny had other ideas on that one, and well . . . there's no way Harry can share George's room, not with Fred's shadow looming large; and Bill and Charlie's old rooms were turned into a study for Arthur and storage space long ago—there's just enough room for a single bed for Charlie in Arthur's study. So Percy's room it is. Which would be fine if Percy weren't there, but he _is_—apparently making up for all the lost time of being an aggravating prat by just hanging around like he's suddenly the favored son again. Of course, now's probably not the time to point out the sacrifices Harry is making for Ron's love life. Particularly given Ron's mood, which seems—if possible—to be getting less hospitable by the minute.

Harry is flummoxed. Open hostility is not something Ron has exhibited in the past few weeks. More of a brooding silence and refusal to engage in any meaningful conversation. He's usually either up in his bedroom with Hermione—Harry doesn't need two guesses to figure out what they're doing up there—or sitting by Fred's grave, alone. Occasionally Harry also spies Ron wandering through the garden looking sleep-deprived. How much shagging are he and Hermione _doing_ anyway? I mean, they have to sleep _sometime_, don't they?

When Ron doesn't respond, Harry tries again. "Are you—are you angry with me?" he asks, almost timidly.

Ron pulls a blade of grass from the ground in front of him. He pauses before he responds. "When I left—when I left and you kissed Hermione—what would've happened if I hadn't come back?" His voice is quiet.

"What?" Harry's eyes widen.

"What would've happened if I hadn't come back?" Ron repeats his question and turns to Harry.

"What would've . . . . _Nothing_ would've—I mean, what are you getting at?" Harry splutters.

"Would you and Hermione have . . . gotten together?"

"What? No!" Harry stutters. "Absolutely not. What—are you bloody _joking_?"

"You knew—you _knew_ how I felt about her, but you. . . . You didn't care."

"No—that's not—I—"

"You _didn't_ know?" Ron snorts, staring back at Fred's grave.

"I _knew_, but I—"

"—didn't care."

"No! That's not—of _course_ I cared. I mean, you're my best mate—I—I—where is this even _coming_ from?"

"I don't know," Ron mutters. "Maybe it's 'cause I have more than 30 seconds to think about something other than my impending death. Nothing _but_ time, actually. To think about everything that happened, to replay every shitty day of the past year in my head. But that one in particular—that one stands out."

"Ron," Harry winces as he hears the desperation in his own tone. "I explained it to you—or I _tried_ anyway. I mean, we were bloody scared—and alone—and you were _gone_—"

"Yeah, I got that part," Ron snaps.

"I didn't mean it _that_ way," Harry says quickly. "We just—I don't _know_. I wasn't thinking, _obviously_. I didn't do it to hurt you, I swear. I know it sounds mental, and Merlin knows if I had thought it through for more than two seconds, I wouldn't have done it. I'm—I'd _never_ do it again, and it didn't even go anywhere. I mean, we didn't even—she—she stopped things almost before they started. And it was before the locket—before I heard the things come out of—"

"Would that've changed anything for you?"

"_Yes_! I wouldn't have been such a—a daft imbecile for one; I would've understood how you felt—but I didn't—"

"But you _did_—you didn't need the locket to tell you that I—"

"No! I knew you—I knew you _fancied _her—but I didn't know you. . . how could I have known? How could I possibly have known you were _jealous_ of—of Hermione and _me_? _Together_? Do you get how mental that sounds? In a million years there was no chance she'd _ever_ have chosen me over _you_. How could you have even—bloody hell, Ron—I watched her magic up paper _birds_ to attack you when you kissed Lavender Brown! She was hysterical when you left. You _saw_ her! Not to mention the fact that she slept with your ridiculously ugly Cannons shirt—in _your_ bed—every night until you came back. So no—I _didn't_ know you felt _that_ way. And that—what happened with us that night—I fucked up and I really thought you understood that. You _said_ you understood. Ron, there's no way that—nothing more would've happened. Ever."

Ron doesn't respond. He goes back to picking grass.

"I'm so sorry, Ron—you _have_ to know that," Harry adds quietly. "And—it doesn't even—it's all bloody meaningless. I mean, bloody hell, Ron, you and Hermione are _together_. And—" Harry swallows, wondering if he should stop here or dare continue, "—she was there too, you know."

The look Ron flashes him suggests to Harry that he made the wrong decision. Harry thinks that if he were anyone else right now, Ron would've punched him. As it is, Harry flinches slightly and looks away.

"You watched her send birds to attack me when I kissed someone else," Ron says slowly.

Harry stares at Ron blankly.

"And you watched her cry when I left. And sleep in my bed."

Harry swallows hard, comprehension dawning. "It's not—it wasn't like that," he says quietly.

"And you still _did_ that to her."

"No! No. _You_ did that to her," Harry snaps. "You weren't there! You don't _know_—you don't _know_ what it was like. I just—we just—it was comfort. In the bloody moment. It was—I wish I could make you understand. Where in the bloody hell did you go? The _you_ that understood that sometimes even the _great_ Harry Potter fucks up!" he says bitterly. "That could _forgive_ me—that _did_ forgive me. Where _is_ that Ron? I'd like him back."

"He's with Fred," Ron responds softly. He stretches out his legs and puts his arms behind him for balance. He raises his face to the sky, a million thoughts swirling through his head. A scene from Hogwarts—laughing with Harry and Hermione about Cho Cheng. Emotional range of a teaspoon. This many emotions really _should_ make your head explode, Ron thinks.

When he finally looks at Harry, he sees Harry staring back at him sadly. "I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "Ron, you're my best mate. You're _more_ than my best mate—you're my _brother._ I know he's gone, but I'm still here."

Ron looks away. "Hermione and I are going to Australia," he says quietly.

Harry pauses. "When?"

"Dad's working things out with Kingsley."

"Oh. So, your dad knows. . . . And Kingsley."

"It's not safe out there," Ron gestures toward the wide open meadow surrounding the Burrow. "So . . . we need the Ministry's help. Dad's insisted on it, anyway," he sighs. "They have resources. They can help us find her parents. They've offered—Kingsley's offered to help us find her parents. She needs them."

Harry swallows the lump that's formed again in his throat. "I see," he says quietly, staring at the ground. "I guess I'm not invited," he tries to keep his voice light. He fails.

Ron looks down, too. "I need to be away from here," he murmurs.

"Right."

"I need some space. And time. Away."

"Away from me?"

"Away from _everything_. Everyone."

"But not Hermione," Harry swallows again, trying to keep his voice even.

Ron pauses. "I—things can't stay the same forever, yunno, Harry?"

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It means . . . it just means we're not—I don't know what you were expecting."

"I was _expecting_ to have my two best friends with me after we finally beat that bloody fucker, that's all I was expecting."

"You do," Ron says. "It's just . . . ." he trails off, unsure of how to continue.

Harry spares him the need. "I was _not_ expecting the three of us to move in together and live happily ever after, Ron," Harry adds, mimicking Ron's earlier words.

Ron swallows. "So then you'll understand why it would be good for all of us to get some space. I'm just—I'm not in a great place right now. And neither is. . . ." he trails off.

Whatever Ron was going to say—probably about Hermione, Harry thinks—he changes his mind.

"It would be good for all of us, I think," Ron finally says.

"Right," Harry replies listlessly, unconvinced of the wisdom of Ron's words. "And when you find her parents? What then?"

"We bring them home," Ron stares into space. "And Hermione goes back to Hogwarts."

"And you?" Harry looks at his best mate.

"And me. . . ." Ron echoes Harry's words. "I don't know. The Ministry, I guess," he sighs. "That's what we're gonna talk with Kingsley about, right?"

"You're not _required_ to join the Aurors, Ron; I thought it was what you _wanted_."

"I did. I do."

"But?"

"But I can't think about this now. I just need to clear my head."

"And Grimmauld Place?" Harry asks quietly.

"If the offer's still on the table when I get back, let's talk about it then," Ron responds even more quietly.

"Obviously the offer's going to be _on the table_—but if you're considering it just because you feel bloody obligated, then probably best to let me know that."

Ron sighs. "I don't know what I'm feeling right now."

"Then I guess you should figure it out before you commit to anything," Harry says bitterly.

"Right," Ron murmurs.

Harry gets up to go.

"Harry," Ron calls after him.

Harry stops and turns back to Ron. "My sister—you . . . well, I hope you can work things out."

These the first kind words from Ron directed at Harry in weeks—and he's caught off guard by them. Harry swallows and nods abruptly before heading back toward the house, leaving Ron to resume his silent conversation with Fred's grave.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"What did you say to Harry?" Hermione murmurs, laying her cheek against Ron's bare chest. She is in awe of nights like this—she _has_ him, he is _hers_. On these nights—when the Burrow is quiet and no one is crying or in the midst of night terrors—she can almost picture this life with him, this life she has always craved—where they can just . . . _be_.

He's quiet—reflective—like he always is after they have sex. She figures now is probably her best opportunity to get inside his head, which she's having trouble doing these days.

Ron is running his fingers up and down her bare back absently. "Why?" he asks.

"He's—something's wrong with him." Hermione traces her own fingers up and down Ron's hard stomach, reveling in the feel of the little ginger hairs trailing beneath his navel.

"Probably because he and Ginny are barely on speaking terms," Ron's stomach muscles contract as Hermione's fingers tickle him.

"My sense is that it may be because _you_ and he are barely on speaking terms," Hermione pauses in her movements, letting her fingers rest on Ron's stomach.

Ron sighs. "We had a . . . conversation earlier. I reckon it could've gone better."

"What kind of conversation?"

"About—just about stuff. Stuff that's been on my mind."

"Like?"

"'Mine, I don't want to talk about it."

"Ron, you made me open up to your _mum_ about the worst things that have ever happened to me and—"

"Because I love you and I want you to be okay."

"And I love _you_ and want _you_ to be okay."

"I'm okay right now—here with you," she can hear the affection in his voice.

"I want you to be okay when we're not shagging."

"We're _not_ shagging," he grins.

She rolls her eyes and doesn't respond.

He pauses. "It'll be better when we're gone," he says finally. "I just need some space. Away from . . . all of this."

"It won't be better—not even in a Muggle hotel halfway across the world—not if you don't talk about what's bothering you."

"Christ, 'Mine. . . ."

"Ronald."

Ron knows that tone all too well. He sighs. "I asked him about that night—the night you and he. . . ."

"What, Ron?"

"Kissed."

"Oh."

Ron is silent.

"What did you want to know about it?" Hermione presses him.

"Why—why it happened."

"I thought you and he talked about—I thought you settled things back in the tent."

"We did. Or I thought so, anyway."

"I see," Hermione lifts her head from his chest and looks at him. She bites down on her lower lip.

"Why did you do it?" He asks gently, pushing a strand of hair out of her face.

Hermione exhales, balling up her fist against his stomach. "I asked myself that every single day after that stupid kiss—until you came back and we—well, made up. . . . I thought you'd ask me then. You didn't. . . ." She trails off and chews on her lip.

Ron watches her, but says nothing.

"I don't know," she finally responds. "That's not true. I do. I guess. . . . I hated you so much for leaving me—I mean, I loved you _so much_ and and you left me anyway—and I know you didn't mean, I know it was the—but I was so hurt and angry. _So_ angry. And I guess part of me—well, maybe all of me—wanted to hurt you like you hurt me," she finishes quietly, laying her head back against his chest. "Didn't matter anyway. 'Cause when he kissed me all I felt was you."

He feels tears fall from her cheeks onto his chest. He gently wipes them away with his fingers.

"I hated myself for it," she whispers. "I still do, you know. When you opened up to me about that horrid locket, knowing I _did_ that to you—"

"Don't," Ron murmurs, kissing her head and rubbing her back gently. "I love you so bloody much. And I'll never forgive myself for walking out on you. It wasn't your fault. None of it."

Hermione raises her head and looks at him again, her eyes still shining with tears. "I meant what I said in that tent, Ron—whatever stupid stuff we've done—we've _both_ done—it brought us here. You're _everything_ to me."

He smiles at her in that way that melts her heart every single time.

"And if you don't blame me, you can't blame Harry either," Hermione adds quietly, her eyes penetrating his. "If that's what you're thinking."

Ron doesn't reply, but his smile disappears.

"Is it?" Hermione presses. "Is that why you've been so . . . cold to him?"

Ron sighs and looks away. "I'm—just, losing Fred—it's just made me think about who's really on my side—just. . . ." he trails off.

"Harry's really on your side," Hermione says softly.

"He was supposed to be on Ginny's side, and he left her."

"Oh, come on, Ron. He was protecting her."

"Was he protecting her when he was kissing you?"

"It was a mistake," Hermione says firmly. "One he _told_ you as soon as you came back. He didn't try to—he didn't try to hide it from you. He knew he had to talk to you about it. And he felt horribly. But you know that already, don't you?"

"_I_ know that. Does Ginny?"

Hermione looks away. "I don't—I don't know what Ginny knows."

Ron raises an eyebrow skeptically.

"Look, whatever he tells her . . . or doesn't . . . That's something they'll have to deal with in their own way."

"They're not dealing with much these days."

"Do you doubt his feelings for her?"

Ron sighs. "No. I don't."

"They'll work things out," Hermione says softly. "But I'd like _you_ to work things out with Harry."

Ron doesn't reply.

"He _loves_ you."

"I don't want to think about this anymore, I just want you," he murmurs, pulling her on top of him, tugging her face down to his and sliding his tongue into her mouth.

"Ron," she pulls away after a minute, trying not to lose her focus, which is growing increasingly hard as she feels _Ron_ growing increasingly hard underneath her. "He's your best friend."

"_You're_ my best friend," he gives her that irresistible smile again. "And you're naked on top of me right now, so I'd prefer not to be thinking about Harry."

Hermione grins back at him. "What else?"

"What else do I want to be thinking about? Fucking you. Immediately."

Hermione laughs and pokes him, trying to keep her wits about her. "What else did you _talk_ about?"

Ron sighs, clearly hoping to move on. "Australia. I told him we were going."

"How did he take it?"

"Mmm. Could've gone better," Ron runs his hands over Hermione's bare arse and pulls her naked body more tightly against him.

"How so?" Hermione tries to ignore Ron's wandering hands and her own burgeoning arousal.

"He—um, I think he hoped to come," he mumbles as he kisses her neck above him and moves down to her breast. "Like me, right now," he grumbles under his breath before licking her breast.

She moans. "But—but he understands?"

"Think so," Ron mumbles into her nipple as he runs his tongue over it. "Oh, and Kingsley wants to see us—reckon it's about the . . . ." He trails off as he takes her breast into his mouth.

"Oh god," Hermione hisses, grinding herself against him. She can't help herself. "What?" She gasps. "What's it about?"

"Mmm, auror program," he starts in on her other breast, swirling his tongue over her nipple before sucking it. "And he wants me to move into—fuck, you're so wet. . . ." He moves his erection against her, positioning himself directly beneath her entrance.

"Move in—into," Hermione is having trouble speaking as Ron runs his tongue up and down her neck.

"Grimmauld—fuck, 'Mine, _please_," he begs.

"We _just_ had sex," she moans.

"Ten minutes ago, at least."

"Grimmauld—mmmm—place?" She runs a hand between her wetness and his erection, stroking him up and down.

"Mhmm," Ron groans. "Herm-i-o-_neeee_."

"What did you say?" She keeps stroking.

"Fuck. . . ."

"Not yet," she teases.

"I'll say anything you want me to say if you just let me. . . ."

"Let you?" She grins.

He grabs her waist and plunges himself into her, groaning with relief. "Just . . . let . . . me. . . ."

She moans as he thrusts into her again. "Make things right with him before we go," she gasps.

He groans again.

"Please," she adds, grabbing his bottom lip with her teeth and angling herself so that he can enter her more deeply.

"Fuck. Yes, _fine_. Just—fuck. . . ."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen. **

Ron hesitates momentarily before knocking on Percy's door. "Harry?" he calls, knocking lightly.

A brief pause, then a response. "Yeah, come in."

"Hi," Ron pushes open the door and stands awkwardly in the frame. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

"Hi."

"Percy sure keeps things neater than I do," Ron looks around, his eyes wide.

"One of his finer points."

"His _only_ finer point," snorts Ron.

Harry suppresses a grin. "What's up?"

"Um, you busy?" Ron shuffles his feet.

"Just packing," Harry looks away from Ron to the large pile of clothing, books, and assorted knick-knacks sitting in the middle of Percy's otherwise tidy room.

Ron stares at him blankly.

"Grimmauld Place," Harry says tightly. "Remember? I'm moving there."

"Right. I just didn't think . . . so soon," Ron mumbles, his face reddening. He pauses again, and then steps into Percy's room, shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah, well, not much to keep me here, what with you and Hermione leaving and Ginny not so interested in speaking with me. . . ." He trails off, looking down at the ground.

"She cares about you, yunno, she's just stubborn," Ron blurts out.

"Kind of like her brother then," Harry raises an eyebrow.

Ron looks momentarily surprised, then laughs. "Yeah, I reckon so."

Harry swallows. "I thought you hated me," he says quietly.

"No, that's—that's ridiculous."

"Not _so_ ridiculous."

"Look. About the other day. . . ."

"When you said I betrayed you and you couldn't wait to get away from me."

"I didn't say _that_ exactly," Ron shifts his weight awkwardly from one leg to the other.

"I must've misheard then."

"I was a bit of an—I mean, maybe I've been a bit of an arse."

"A bit?" Harry snorts and then narrows his eyes. "Did Hermione send you here to apologize?"

"What?" Ron is now bright red. "No." He pauses. "Yes," he concedes. "But, in my defense, I would've gotten around to it eventually."

Harry laughs, his eyes filled with affection. "You're my best mate, you bloody idiot. Apology or not."

Ron smiles. It's the first smile Harry thinks he's seen in weeks. "I'm, uh—you need some help?"

"Yeah, that'd be—that'd be nice," Harry replies.

Ron shuffles over and sits on the floor next to Harry's pile. He sorts through some books silently.

"Bloody hell, Harry, you kept this?" Ron snickers, raising a frayed copy of Gilderoy Lockhart's autobiography.

"_Hermione_ did," Harry retorts. "That's from _her_ bag. Trash," he points to one of two piles in front of him.

Ron laughs—"She was really in love with that old fraud"—and dumps the textbook onto the trash heap.

"Yeah, it was vile," Harry grins.

They sort in silence for several minutes—the only sound is of textbooks hitting the floor and Ron occasionally grunting at Harry in shorthand regarding which pile a particular item belongs.

"Mum'll want to help sort things out," Ron finally mutters, knee deep in Harry's old Quidditch gear.

"Sort what out?" Harry looks up from stacks of folded clothing, separated by winter and spring.

"Grimmauld Place. It's a bloody dungeon—or it was last we were there, anyway," he grimaces at the memory.

"Might be even worse now," Harry muses, recalling the last time he, Ron, and Hermione set foot—or almost set foot—into Grimmauld Place, with a dark wizard on their backs, literally.

"You think they hexed the place?" Ron asks thoughtfully.

Harry shudders. "I don't know. But I guess I'll find out." He plasters a smile on his face. "No time like the present anyway."

"We can all help get it into shape again," Ron offers.

"Thanks—but it's pretty obvious you have enough to deal with right now."

Ron shrugs. "I don't mind. And look—mum really _will_ want to help."

"Yeah. Well, she's had a lot on her mind, too. I don't think it would be fair to ask."

"Are you mental? She'd love it. Would be a welcome distraction from . . . things. She'll be buying new rugs and curtains and decor—whatever the wall hang-ie things are—it'll cheer her up."

"You think?"

"I _know_."

"Well, maybe when you and Hermione leave. . . ."

"That'd be great, Harry," Ron says enthusiastically. "It'll distract her from owling us every three minutes, checking to make sure we're still alive."

Harry chuckles before the boys grow quiet again. He breaks the silence a few minutes later. "Are you—the things you said the other day. . . ."

Ron sighs. "I—I have a lot on my mind. Still. But I'm not—I just need some time to sort through it all. I'm not trying to chuck you, I swear," he stops sorting through books and looks at Harry.

"I guess I can live with that."

"Um, Harry—there's one more thing. . . ." Ron trails off awkwardly.

Harry sighs. "Did Hermione send you in here with a written list? If so, just hand it over."

Ron looks sheepish. "I'm not—that's not—"

"You are the worst liar on the planet. What does she want?"

"Well, you know—you and Gin have been a bit . . . distant, and . . . I guess it's just a surprise, seeing as you had all these . . . _feelings_ . . . and I guess we expected—I mean, _I_ expected—that, you know. . . ."

"God, you really are the worst."

"I'm trying here."

"Your sister is the one who has a problem with me. Not the other way around."

"Does she know about the—the thing?"

"No," Harry sighs.

"Then . . . why?"

Harry shrugs. "Ask _her_."

"I'm asking you."

"She's—the day we got back to Hogwarts—when I went to give myself up to . . . _him_"—Ron nods in recognition—"I didn't tell her."

"You didn't tell anyone."

"But I didn't tell _her._ And," he sighs, "when everything was—when it was done, I went to you and Hermione—and I left her behind. She was pretty upset with me."

"I don't remember that."

"You were a little distracted," Harry raises an eyebrow. He sighs again. "The whole thing has just been hard. I've been gone for so long and she's been—she's practically living in a different world, and so much has happened—and it's just been hard to talk to her about everything. And she's going back to Hogwarts and I'm not—and bloody hell, she's—she's gorgeous and smart and funny and kind. She could date _anyone_. After everything that's happened, I'm just not sure it's me she wants anymore." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm just—I'm shite at this. I'm _you_ without the experience."

Ron stares at Harry blankly.

"I think you're supposed to say something now," Harry prompts him. "Like, 'it'll all be okay.' Or give me some advice as to how to get her back. Or at least the old 'there are other fish in the sea.' For Merlin's sake, Hermione _really_ sent _you_ here to do this?"

Ron gives him a lopsided grin. "Yeah, I don't know what she was thinking—I'm rubbish at this. Look—I have no bloody clue how you make things right, but, um, mate—I know she cares about you. It's pretty obvious. And if you . . . if you love her or whatever—then you should, you know—do something or what have you."

"Good talk, Ron. Thanks."

"Right then," Ron looks back down at the piles and goes back to sorting.


End file.
